Awakenings
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Something goes horribly wrong with Wilson's liver donation surgery and House and Cuddy seek comfort in each other.


**This story feels half-cooked, even to me. But I write em, I post em and then we all move on with our lives. Thanks to Princess Rainbow Puke for the prompt—what if there were complications with Wilson's donor surgery**_**?**_**—and MystryGAB for the creative counseling. Special thanks to Grumpy Doc for giving me just enough fancy sounding words to make the bullshit seem believable. **

"He should be awake by now," House said, folding his arms and frowning in the direction of his unconscious best friend.

"There's no exact timetable for this," Dr. Atwood said. "You know that."

Atwood checked Wilson's monitor, fiddled with some meds.

"I'm sure he'll be up any minute now," he said.

"Is _Tucker_ awake?" House said, spitting out the name of Wilson's hunting buddy like it was poison in his mouth.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Tucker awakened from his surgery about half an hour ago. He's sitting up and responsive."

"Oh thank God," House said.

Atwood looked at him.

"I'm sure Dr. Wilson will be very happy to know that the donor procedure was a success."

House clenched his jaw a bit.

"That guy Tucker is a parasite," he hissed. "He just takes and takes and takes without giving anything in return. He'd suck Wilson dry if given the chance."

Atwood raised his eyebrows a bit.

"You talking about Tucker…or yourself?" he said archly.

House was about to rudely respond, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

"He's jaundiced," he said, looking closely at Wilson.

"He's not," Atwood said.

"I know what Wilson's girlishly pink skin tone looks like. Not this!" House said.

He opened one of Wilson's eyes.

The sclera clearly had a yellowish tint.

Atwood looked closer, then looked at Wilson's monitor again and frowned.

"Something's wrong," he said.

"Great observation, genius . ."

Atwood pressed the monitor on Wilson's bed. "I need my hepatic team to IC 342—stat!" he said. Then he turned to House:

"House, get the hell out of here and let us do our job."  
######

It was a blood clot, in his portal vein, compromising his liver. They couldn't do the surgery to attempt to remove it because Wilson was still too physically vulnerable. So they put him in a medically induced coma, until it was safe to go in.

"I knew it. I fucking knew this would happen," House muttered, looking at Wilson helplessly.

Although there was nothing he could do, he sat vigil at Wilson's bedside. One by one, members of his team came in to offer support, but he sent them all away.

"You shouldn't be alone right now," Foreman said.

"I'm not alone! I'm with Wilson!" House barked back.

"Can I bring you something?" Chase had asked, gently.

"Yes, a diagnosis on our patient!" House said.

And when Thirteen tried to put a consoling hand his shoulder, he gave her such a death stare, she recoiled as though she had just touched something hot.

As for Cuddy, she had been in and out of meetings all day and was only just now hearing the news about Wilson's post-op complications.

She rushed to Intensive Care, her heels clicking angrily against the linoleum floor.

"What the hell happened?" she said, bursting into the room. She snatched Wilson's chart off the stand.

"Your incompetent surgeons fucked up the procedure," House said. "That's what happened."

Cuddy continued to look at the chart.

"They induced a coma?" she said. "Why?"

"Because they need to hit the pause button so they can figure out what the hell to do," House said.

"Oh my God," Cuddy said. Then, as the news sunk in, she repeated herself in a stunned sort of voice: "Oh my God."

She turned to House. His shoulders were slumped and his face was drawn. He looked scared.

"Can I sit with you?" she said, biting her lip.

"Why does everybody want to sit with me? What's so fucking thrilling about sitting with me? Why don't you go sit with Lucas?"

Cuddy's felt stung for a moment, but she understood. House couldn't stand for anyone to see him in pain.

She looked back at Wilson's monitor.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "But call me the second they know they anything. The second there's any sort of change."

Then she leaned forward, kissed Wilson on the forehead and murmured something in his ear.

House couldn't make out all the words, but he heard "be strong" and "I love you."

He peered at her.

"Okay," he said. "You can stay."

#####

They sat side by side in chairs beside Wilson's bed.

Mostly they were quiet.

Sometimes, they talked about Wilson.

"If Wilson was ever going to be in a coma, this is the most Wilsonian coma he could possibly be in," Cuddy mused. "A completely selfless gesture for a friend he hardly knows and only sees once a year."

"True," House said. "If Wilson's Disease didn't already exist, this could be its new definition: Life-threatening illness brought on by reckless acts of selflessness."

"Exactly."

"He's such an idiot," House said fondly.

"Best idiot I know," Cuddy agreed.

And they nodded at each other.

Cuddy went to the cafeteria and got them coffee and sandwiches, which House didn't touch at first, until she gently prodded him.

"House, you have to eat."

"Not hungry."

"For each bite, I'll take away one hour of the clinic duty you owe me."

He gave a tiny laugh.

"Wow. My manorexia clearly worries you."

"Everything about you worries me," she said.

So he took a bite of the sandwich.

At about 5 pm, there was an unwelcome visitor: Lucas.

"Honey, I just heard," he said, walking up to Cuddy and kissing her. She kissed back, somewhat self-consciously, since House was in the room.

"How's he doing?" Lucas asked, looking at Wilson's immobile form.

"He's stable. He's in what's called a medically induced coma," Cuddy explained.

"Doctors put him in a coma—on purpose?" Lucas said.

"It's hard to explain. . ." Cuddy started.

"Thanks for coming, Lucas," House said, standing up brusquely.

Lucas looked at him, annoyed.

"I thought I'd stay a bit. . .for support."

"No one in this room needs your support," House said.

"My girlfriend does," Lucas countered. "And I'll have you know, Wilson has never been anything but kind to me. I'm here to support him, too."

Cuddy braced herself, knowing what was coming next.

"You don't know a Goddamn thing about James Wilson," House said, moving toward Lucas threateningly.

Cuddy popped up, put a hand on House's chest to stop him.

"House. . ." she warned.

Then she cocked her head toward the door and said to Lucas, "Can we. . .?"

Lucas glared at House for a second but followed Cuddy into the hallway.

"I really appreciate you coming to see me . . ." Cuddy said.

"But?" Lucas said, already annoyed.

"But you should go home."

"_What?"_

"House can't be around people when he's worried like this. Don't take it personally. He threw out his entire team, too."

"And yet, by some miracle, he can manage to be around you."

"He. . .knows that Wilson and I are close. He's letting me stay because it's what Wilson would want."

"Suuuure," Lucas said, rolling his eyes a bit.

"It's really very sweet of you to come, but I'll be fine," Cuddy said, patting him on the arm.

"You know it's not all about what House wants, what House needs. Maybe you need some support right now, too."

"I have support," Cuddy said. "I have House."

Lucas's mouth dropped open.

"That's great," he finally muttered. "That's just perfect. Maybe we should rethink this whole moving in together thing, too. Maybe you should move in with House!"

And he stormed away.

She watched him for a bit—surprised that she had absolutely zero desire to chase after him—then stepped back into the room.

"Everything okay?" House asked.

"Everything's just fine," Cuddy said.

######

Later that night, Dr. Atwood came by and walked House and Cuddy through the various possible outcomes of tomorrow's surgery.

If they couldn't figure out a way to remove the blood clot safely, Atwood said, Wilson might need a living liver donation, himself.

"He's your best friend, House. Willing to give up a part of your liver for him?" Atwood said, with a skeptical smirk.

"Yes," House said, without hesitation. "I am. But it's a moot point. Wilson is type O-negative. I'm type AB."

"Of course," Atwood said.

"I'm type O-negative," Cuddy chimed in.

Both Atwood and House looked at her.

"Thanks for sharing," House said. Then, back to Atwood, he said: "I'll have my team look over the donor registry."

"Let's at least see if I'm a match first," Cuddy said.

"What's the point of seeing if you're a match when you're clearly not giving up any part of your liver for him?" House said.

"Ben, give us a second," Cuddy said to Atwood.

Atwood shrugged and stepped into the hallway.

"What's your problem?" Cuddy said to House, once he was out of earshot.

"My best friend's in a coma. That's my problem."

"And I'm trying to help."

"By doing the exact same idiotic thing that got Wilson into this mess to begin with?"

"We both know that the odds of a blood clot forming in the liver are extremely low."

"I know a way to make the odds non-existent—don't have the surgery."

"You just said that if you were a match you'd give up part of your liver for him."

"And I would. I don't see how that is relevant to this conversation."

"So it's okay for you to make this sacrifice but not me?"

"Yes," House said tersely.

"That's ridiculous. And what's more, it's illogical. And we both know how much you love logic."

"It's completely logical. You have a whole hospital to run. People who count on you every day. Some lives are simply more valuable than others."

She stared at him, incredulously.

"House, your life is valuable," she said.

"Value is a relative thing."

"People count on you, too," she said.

"Well, pity them then," House said.

There was a long silence. Finally, Cuddy sighed and said: "Look, we don't even know if I'm a match. Just because our blood type is the same—"

"And we never will know," House said stubbornly. "Because you're not getting tested."

"Wilson could die!" Cuddy said.

"You could die!" House countered.

"That's a chance I'm willing to take to save a dear a friend," Cuddy said.

"Well, it's not a chance I'm willing to let you take. . . I . . . forbid it!"

Now Cuddy's face turned bright red. She put her hands on her hips. She wasn't a huge fan of being bossed around.

"You _forbid_ it? What are you, my husband?"

House recoiled a bit.

"Screw you, Cuddy," he said.

"Screw me? Screw you!"

They glared at each other—a staring contest of sorts—until House's face went slack. He looked at the floor.

"Just because I'm not good enough to be the man in your life that doesn't mean I don't care about you," he said softly.

Cuddy closed her eyes, finally getting it. Her entire posture softened.

"House," she said, taking his hands. "Of course you're good enough. You're more than good enough. It's never been about that."

"What's it about then?" he asked.

But she literally couldn't remember why she was with Lucas instead of House, the man she really loved. Everything in her life suddenly seemed out of synch.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I honestly don't know."

"Just. . .don't do the surgery, okay?" he said, still not making eye contact with her. "I couldn't take it if you were both under the knife. I swear to God, I'd . . .lose my mind. Permanently, this time."

Cuddy nodded her head slowly.

"We'll tell your team to look through the donor registry," she said.

House inhaled a bit.

"Thank you," he said.

#######

Later that night, Cuddy fell asleep, curled up in her chair. House limped over to the room's small supply closet and got a blanket for her. At some point, she shifted in her sleep and her head lolled onto his shoulder.

He looked at her for a few minutes, felt her breath, warm on his neck, took note of how her eyelashes fluttered in her sleep. He felt an ineffable pang. At one point she had loved him, of that he was sure, and then he had fucked it up so badly, and in so many creatively horrible ways, she now loved another man. His own failure with this woman would haunt him for the rest of his life. But God, why did her body have to feel so good against his? And why did he sometimes feel the connection was there—as strong as it had ever been, maybe even stronger? He closed his eyes and tried to wipe out these thoughts—they were torture.

A few hours later, it was Cuddy who awakened. For a moment, she was disoriented. Then she remembered where she was. She realized, slightly embarrassed, that she was nuzzled up against House—her face somehow buried in his neck. Her physical attraction to him was a kind of force of nature, she thought—it had a gravitational pull of its own. Then she realized that it must've been House who placed the blanket on her.

Watching him sleep, she thought about his loyalty, how he was so willing to give of himself. He pretended he was hardened, that he didn't care—and he even mocked those who did. But the truth was, he would die for the people he loved.

_He has so much more love to give than he even realizes himself_, she thought.

"You're a good man," she whispered, just loud enough so that it might sink in subliminally, but not so loud as to wake him.

Then she yanked the blanket out from under her and draped half over House's sleeping form. It now insufficiently covered neither of them, but at least they could share.

#####

The surgery went on for what seemed like an eternity. It was nearly unbearable for House and Cuddy, who were used to being the ones in the middle of the action, the ones making split second life and death decisions of their own.

Finally, Atwood came out of the OR, a surgical mask dangling around his neck.

House and Cuddy looked up at him, expectantly.

"He's going to be okay," he said. "The operation was a success.

We were able to safely remove the clot and restore all liver function. Dr. Wilson won't need a transplant, after all."

On impulse, House and Cuddy embraced. Cuddy cried a bit, and maybe House did a little, too. They held each other tightly until they stepped apart, somewhat embarrassed by this naked display of emotion.

"Thank you, Ben," Cuddy said, wiping her eyes.

"Maybe if you hadn't screwed up in the first place, he wouldn't have had to go through this ordeal," House said. Cuddy shot him a slightly scolding look. He looked down. "But, uh, good job."

####

Several hours later, James Wilson opened his eyes for the first time in two days.

"Morning, Rip Van Wilson," House said, with a tiny, relieved smile. He limped over to Wilson's bed.

"Hi," Wilson said groggily. "Was the surgery a success?"

"Which one?" House said.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. . . Yes, your horrible friend Tucker is alive and well, thanks to you. He'll be happily betraying the people who love and trust him for years to come."

But Wilson was too out-of-it to understand House's sarcasm. Besides, he had just noticed Cuddy sitting in the chair.

"You're both here!" he said, smiling sweetly.

"Of course we're both here. We've both been here the whole time," Cuddy said.

"It's good that you're both here because you both love each other," Wilson slurred. "And when two people both love each, they should be together."

House looked at Cuddy, slightly mortified.

"Give the guy a little morphine and he turns into Dr. Ruth," he said.

"You know what Wilson?" Cuddy said, getting up from her chair, taking House's hand and—much to his astonishment— bringing it to her lips. "I think you're absolutely right."

THE END


End file.
